Stolen Flesh
by XxDARKOTTERxX
Summary: He twists and buckles and I know he's not here anymore. And I know that when the time comes, I won't be able to do it. I can't kill Allen even though he's not Allen anymore. Yullen. Part of 'A Series of Fragments and Nothing More'.


**_A/N:_ **Hello All. :) Another ficlet in the series _A Series of Fragments and Nothing More_. Enjoy.

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_Stolen Flesh [He is Mine]_

It is a whisper, always in the back of his mind. It is a parasite, gnawing it's way through his subconscious and conscious alike. I can see it and wonder why no one else can see the _pain-agony-torture_ that sweeps across his pale features as he fights.

It _comes-and-goes_. Like the tide, drawn by the moon—the moon he gazes at with unseeing eyes—and it hurts him. It _comes-and-goes_, a whisper, a parasite, and it is eating away and soon. Soon, there will only be _Him_. And Allen will be gone.

Sitting against the headboard of the bed, I gaze down at his prone form, head on the pillow, silver strands of soft hair spreading out like the rays of the sun—no, the _moon_. He is like the moon. I bury my fingers in those soft locks and watch his hand clench against the sheet.

And the clock on the windowsill _tick-tock-tick-tock_'s and I lift my gaze to the moon. I try to _understand—comprehend—fathom _the significance of the silver marble hanging in the sky and I think of his eyes.

_He _is coming. I see it. I see Allen _gasping—buckling—twisting_ and know what is to appear in a moments time. _He _is coming, and I am determined to confront _him_ like I always do.

"If you let me have him, I'll give you anything you want."

I recognize that tone of voice. It is sick and twisted and corrupted and _I hate it._ It's _him_. Allen is buried, somewhere, _crying—sobbing—pleading _to return, and _he_ just sits up in the body he has stolen and turns his golden gaze upon me.

I hate those golden eyes. _Give me back those silver eyes that can read through me. Give him back to me._

I don't move, just rest my hand on the pillow and look out of the window. "_Anything_, Exorcist," he hisses and his hand darts out to my thigh, covered in the sheets. I tense and catch that thin wrist before he reaches me.

"Then give him back to me," I reply. _Give him back. He's mine. I don't want you here. Get out of his mind; get out of his body. _I tighten my grip on that _pale—milky—cream_ wrist until _he_ lets out a soft acclamation of pain.

Allen will understand. He always _understands_.

"That is not what I meant, _human_," _he_ breathes out to me. _I know what you meant. Give him back to me._ "I can do things for you that he would not do for you. Wouldn't you like that? You would like that. I know it."

I look out of the window again. I feel him _twisting—writhing—squirming _to free the borrowed flesh from my firm grip. I do not let go. He scrabbles and reaches for my hand with the dark, mismatched skin of the Innocence-infected arm.

Pain shoots through my arm as razor-sharp nails _pull—rip—claw_ at my hand and wrist, trying to free _himself_. I do not let go. I turn my gaze back to the creature inhabiting his body and raise my dark eyebrows.

"We've done this before, haven't we?"

He hisses in pain and frustration and that left hand slips in the blood and drops against the dirtied blankets. He is creating more filth. The blood is stark. It hurts to look at it even though it's mine. _Give him back to me, please. Just a little longer. Just a little longer. Please. He can't leave just yet. _

I can see the pain lacing across the stolen face. Those doll features contorting into gasping whines. I pin him back on the bed and force the demon in his skin to look at my face.

"Give him back."

"No," _he_ hums out.

I know what to do. It works. It always works. It brings him back. It _reminds—revives—recalls_ him back to me. Because I remind him of me. And when the day comes when it doesn't work, surely _he _will kill me.

And the clock on the windowsill _tick-tock-tick-tock_'s and the moon shines into the room.

I place my lips against his soft, willing lips and _he_ lets out a groan. Of disgust, of panic, of all the things someone does when they know they will lose this fight. I take what is rightfully mine. I know I am the only one who has some influence on the _comes-and-goes_ of the demon residing inside him. _He is mine. Give him back for good. Leave his mind. Leave his body. You're contaminating his beautiful body and I don't want to see that disgusting smile stretching across that lovely face. _

And when I feel a chill go through my spine outside the door, so long after the time in the bedroom late at night, the same feeling with the _comes-and-goes_, I know _he _is here. _He_ is here and he is _strong—unforgiving—unrelenting_.

The scene in the room creates even more of a chill than I had felt before. It gripped my heart, suffocating my mind in a whirl of dangerous thoughts to _kill—dispel—fight _the _thing_ eating away at his body and his mind and everything in between.

The blade is to the taken flesh of what had been mine, and it is just as strong, unforgiving, as the monster in his skin. And he just looks up at me. And he smiles. And his smile is all wrong and _give him back to me, please. I must end this all but I can't. I won't. I should. I won't. _I can't.

It _comes-and-goes_, like the tide. And the clock on the bedside table continues to _tick-tock-tick-tock_. And my heart is trying to break free and I must hold it in. And _I must save him, I can't let him go. I can't. I won't. I should. I won't. _I can't.

_He_ looks up at me in the _stolen—borrowed—claimed _face of what _is—was—should be_ and smiles. It twists that porcelain pale face into a monster. And I must kill it. I must destroy it. But what I've done before won't work. Not now. Not anymore.

_He _is expectant. _He _is waiting. For the press of my blade—my _blade—_against his skin. Biting and cutting and claiming.

_I can't. I should. I would. But I can't. And I won't. And I just can't do it. I can't._

And the _comes-and-goes_ have stopped because _he_ is here for good. The moon has been destroyed. The tide sits still. And I can't hear the _tick-tock-tick-tock_ of the clock on the bedside table.

_I won't. I should. I can't._

I can't.


End file.
